prêtville [an excerpt of snow]

meetings proposals
grants and grant’s tomb

call a charge anyway we
have thousands to lose

before the job’s in danger
she walked the streets

there are witnesses who say so
but she was still up there

still listening
snow and gentleness

still dying
and months became

even a year
and then two years

up in the hungry sky
he spoke until he was hoarse

spoke past being hoarse spoke his way
back to health hoarseness

meaning nothing to
a ghost and because she

had forgot that she was alive
and he was not even really there

she made a kind of peace
with life in hell.

november 9th, 2016

let me hold you closer here
now that the world is lost.
drive here
come by Greyhound
come on foot

we should be together
when the sea boils:

we should be together

because the fire will come here late
so far away from the ocean
the sun long set night perfect in itself;
it will come here late to devour

what can a last embrace do?
i don’t know
but much more than standing alone
much more than silence
 

u.s. 127 north

 
i said the sky was bizarre
endlessly strange—the only thing
we look at all together

and also this—heaven isn’t
really like that
is it?

clouds and stars grey curtains full of snow

after the whole gauntlet i mean
it would be so cruel
for it to have been
there all along, you know
 

untitled, at home

 
it’s a blunt thing ideas
the gaps hidden in the wall god will find them out
and ideas mean bleeding
to some extent

it’s because the world
isn’t made of ideas—even though they can do marvellous things
but the world is made of people and demons and
the angel armies mostly though it’s
stories:

the world’s made of stories and that’s dangerous too
terrifying even it can’t be known—ideas are like trees they grow
but seedlings they are mostly all the same you can
buy or sell an idea but

stories can only be told and
lord god it’s hard to do that and lord god
at best it’s like trying to move a sandcastle
intact

then again it’s not stories that keep a person honest
or cut the tall poppies or
keep us a little vulnerable:

a couple knives some milk and a hot oven you can
do anything with stories ideas at least they
look the same more or less after a week

we’re all part of the problem and she held me close
to her breast and the tableau was one of a savior and
i felt and found her with my tongue we knew
we were doing something wrong
wrong to ourselves too

we weren’t storybook gods after all but what is the memory
and what is the idea there—doing the wrong thing
and right at the same time and sometimes the wrong thing
can be made right so why not misbehave:

there was nothing imperfect of her body then
nor mind tasted like summer itself her skin
was a miracle and nothing less

ideas though:
they always find you in the end
having some grievance